


Symphony for Stars and Planets

by singingintime (laulan)



Series: Stars and Planets 'Verse [1]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Earth, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Music, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-06-12
Updated: 2009-06-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 07:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15658494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laulan/pseuds/singingintime
Summary: Fromthis promptatst_xi_kink: "The Star Trek theme was awesome.  It deserves an awesome Musician AU in it's honor.My thought is SpockxKirk AU where they are both musicians. I totally see Spock as first chair violin, and Kirk as a crazy band guy - maybe as percussion, cause those guys were always the most fun. They're both part of an Orchestra group ensemble thing, and they're scoring a soundtrack for a movie.Bonus points if you get incute Cello playing Sulu x Flute playing Chekov."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Original fic note: Some credit for instrument choices must go to the posters in that thread.  Thanks, anons!
> 
> -
> 
> New content note: I haven't marked this story as "underage" as Chekov/Sulu is not the focus of the fic, but Pavel is 17 and Hikaru is 19 here (a year and a half apart). Nothing happens beyond the level of brief kisses between the two of them, but they *are* dating, and I wanted to mention that up here so people can avoid reading if they need or want to.

_(1)_

The room is a riot of sound--rehearsal begins in two minutes and the tension is palpable, building in the air like a crescendo. Cellos sigh; an oboe trembles in a test of _vibrato,_ and a horn rings out in triumphant fifths. Below it all, the drums rumble like thunder gathering at the horizon.

Spock can feel it, itching along his spine, but he keeps his face carefully blank. Now is not the time to appear nervous, after all.  He is first chair, and he must be an example to the others. Besides, there’s nothing to worry about, he reminds himself for the thousandth time; he’s practiced enough so that he could play the score in his sleep.

He’s just checking the pitch of his A one last time when a boy with golden-brown hair saunters in from stage right, trumpet slung over his shoulder.  
  
He claps one of the clarinets hard on the back on his way in, and the resulting noise blares sharply out into the room. Someone carrying a bass stumbles into the projection screen at the front at the shock, and Spock’s stand partner almost drops her violin in surprise. Spock frowns and glances over at the boy, who’s now laughing at his spluttering companion, head thrown back in delight.

He knows who the boy is--one James T. Kirk, lauded across the nation for his amazing skill at the trumpet. He goes to Columbia, if Spock recalls correctly, where he double-majors in Music and Jazz Studies and minors in Mechanical Engineering.  
  
He can play everything from big band to classical to jazz with exceptional skill. Spock’s seen videos of him on Youtube before, and, if truth be told, has been hoping he would get a chance to play beside him, because Kirk is incredibly talented.  He's inspiring even through a computer screen; Spock assumed he would only be moreso in person. He’d even once imagined them discussing music and their craft, and perhaps, if he were lucky, becoming friends. Kirk looked, he’d thought, like the kind of person he could have been friends with. Watching him now, though, he feels he must revise his assumptions. He can see he and Kirk are entirely too different.

For one, Kirk’s come into rehearsal exactly on time--which means he hasn’t warmed up at all. Spock, in contrast, has been on stage for an hour already by now, tuning his violin and practicing the section of the score they’re meant to begin working on today. While it’s true that it’s not a written requirement that one must show up early to rehearsal, it’s common practice. It helps speed things along if the conductor doesn’t need to warm them up as much, and it’s extremely irresponsible of Kirk, Spock thinks, to not come earlier on the first day.

Moreover, unlike the rest of them, Kirk is not wearing anything that could be called professional attire. He’s dressed in jeans, converse, and a simple black t-shirt with a fermata and the words “Hold Me” emblazoned across it in white. Amusing, perhaps, but _not_ the time or place to wear such a thing by any stretch of reasoning, Spock thinks, pursing his lips. Their conductor is _Christopher Pike_ , internationally renowned conductor with ten Grammys behind him--if there’s any conductor who deserves a high level of respect, it’s him. That outfit is about as blatantly disrespectful as it can get.

Not to mention Kirk’s behavior just now with the clarinetist, a useless and unnecessary interruption that could easily have resulted in injury. With a slight pang of disappointment, Spock writes Kirk off as not worth talking to. A shame, as he’s long admired him, but there you have it, he thinks, turning back to his violin.

Their conductor walks in at that moment. "Hello, everyone!" he calls, a welcoming smile stretched over his face.  
  
The noise quiets almost immediately--Pike is the type of person who commands attention and loyalty in an instant, though you'd never guess it from looking at his sedate grey hair and calm eyes. Spock straightens minutely and watches others do the same as Pike walks to the front of the room, anticipation and terror thrilling through him. _It’s really happening_ , he thinks, setting down his violin as silently as he can manage.  He's really here.  
  
He forgets all about Kirk as Pike introduces himself formally and talks them through the process of the next several weeks. Sectionals every day from ten to twelve, Pike tells them, then group rehearsal from two to four--Spock’s excited just to think of it, itching to set fingers to violin and show Pike exactly what he can do.  Under his direction, the violins will be the best and most moving section of the orchestra, he vows firmly to himself.

After the formalities are through, Pike calls out the names of the first chairs of every section and has them play thirty seconds of music, “just to give us an idea of who you are.” Spock can instantly tell when Pike reaches his name, because the conductor frowns at the paper and moves his lips silently, as if trying to match letters to sounds.

“It’s almost unpronounceable to most English speakers,” he announces, projecting clearly across the room. People turn to observe, but he pays them no mind.  “I usually go by Spock,” he adds.

Pike smiles at him. “All right, then," he says, clapping his hands together. "Thanks for saving me the embarrassment, Spock. Spock’s our first chair violin, everyone, hailing from Juilliard. Go ahead and play us anything, Spock.”

Spock nods and cradles his violin under his chin, positioning it carefully until it’s sitting in just the right place. As he’s about to begin, he catches sight of Kirk across the room by chance. The trumpet player is leaning back in his chair, legs crossed and a half-smirk curled on his face.  At the sight, Spock’s stomach twists hard, and his grip on the bow tightens involuntarily. What right does Kirk have to look as if he expects nothing... ? As if Spock and this whole thing doesn’t matter at all?

Confusion burns into determination and purpose. Perhaps Kirk doesn’t take this seriously, but Spock does. He is _first chair_ ; he will not make a mistake. He grimly sets bow to strings and plays.  
  
He chooses the climax of his latest piece: a battle challenge whose notes seem to stab and slash at the air in the room.  When he sets his bow down, he catches awed looks around him with a certain hidden pride. Montgomery Scott, manning percussion at the back, calls out that that was “ _awesome_ , truly!” Spock merely nods his thanks, and keeps his smile to himself when he notes Kirk staring. They won’t be friends, but he won’t allow himself to be written off by the arrogant trumpet player if there’s anything he can do about it, he thinks to himself.  He sets his bow down exactly on the edge of his stand, and turns back to Pike, waiting for further instructions.

-

Nyota barges unceremoniously into his room late that evening. “Kill me now,” she groans, collapsing onto the bed beside him. “Kill me and then kill that _Rand_ girl.”

He lays his book down, hiding a smile. “Hello to you too,” he says, raising his eyebrows at the back of her head. “Should I even ask how your day went, or would that be pointless? And the answer’s no, by the way. I rather like you alive.”

“You’re an uncooperative bastard and I hate you,” she grumbles into his pillow. She sighs, rolls over, and shoves her feet companionably over his without asking. Typical Nyota, no concern whatsoever for personal space; he’s glad for it. By some chance, he ended up with a single room, and he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself in all the emptiness.

“What’s so awful about her?” he asks, nudging her feet lightly back.

“She just _sucks_!” Nyota explodes, scowling and crossing her arms over her chest. “I swear, I’m going to smack her if she messes up the descant one more time. It’s really not that hard.” She sings a piercingly beautiful line to demonstrate, wrinkling her pert nose at the ceiling.

He tries not to smile. “Dearest,” he says, “not everyone’s as good as you are. Perhaps she’s just feeling a little intimidated?”

“Yeah right, flatterer,” she scoffs. “And like that’s even an excuse. She should know her shit by now! It’s like she hasn’t even _looked_ at the score. Which would be fine if she could, oh, I don’t know, sight-read better than a first grader--but she can’t, and she keeps messing all the other first sopranos up, too! I don’t know why she even got selected.”

“She must have a decently pretty voice,” he says, to be devil’s advocate, keeping his amusement to himself.

She snorts. “Yeah, a pretty voice doesn’t mean much if you don’t have the theory to back it up. You _know_ that, Spock.” She fixes him with a glare. “Look, stop being logical and fair for once and let me whine, okay, Vulcan?”

He grins at the old joke. “As you like.” He pauses, and admits, “She does seem rather... deficient in theoretical capacity, so to speak.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Nyota says, smacking his leg affectionately. “If I call you and I’m freaking out, you’ll know I need you to come help me hide her body, okay? But enough about my day--how was yours?”

He can’t help but shake his head, amused. “Fine,” he says. “Pike is a brilliant conductor.  Today was very successful. You’ll like working with him, I believe. And everyone I’ve met seems decent.” He hesitates. “Though I must admit there is a trumpet player who I’m not looking forward to seeing on a regular basis.”

“Oh yeah? Girl or guy?”

“Guy. James Kirk.”

Her pretty mouth twists. “Oh, _him_ ,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I just met him like five minutes ago. God, what a tool. He and Gaila are in my room right now--think they’re gonna hook up. That’s why I booked it so fast.”

“Lovely,” says Spock, pursing his lips. “I see he shows the same lack of respect for other people in all aspects of his life. He came into practice exactly on time today and was wearing the most ridiculous--well. Anyhow. James Kirk and the Rand girl aside, we’ll settle in, I’m sure,” he says, pulling himself away from things that don’t matter. “It’s only the first day, after all.”

“Yeah,” she says, snuggling into his side. “God, I can’t believe we’re working on the _Star Trek_ score. How amazing is this? Pike is my hero.”

It _is_ extremely unusual to have a movie soundtrack be made almost entirely by student musicians and not seasoned veterans, Spock agrees. Pike encountered some resistance for it, but claimed in the press release that he wanted to “bring fresh blood to the universe he loved so much,” going on to cite that the movie was meant to inspire new and old fans alike, and take chances that other films wouldn’t. Spock doesn’t much care what the reasons are, in the end; he’s just fiercely glad for them. All that really matters is that he auditioned and _got_ here. He’s loved Star Trek as long as he can remember, since his mother first sat him on the couch to watch Captain Picard sail through space, and to be allowed to contribute to the Star Trek universe in some way is nothing short of a dream come true.

 _First chair_ , he lets himself think, and smiles.

-

_(2)_

Kirk accosts him on his way to practice the next morning.

Well, perhaps “accosts” is too strong a word.

He catches Spock walking to practice, apparently not planning on being late to warm up again. He’s wearing jeans and a t-shirt again, though, this time a plain dark red that stretches tightly across his chest.

“Hey!” he says, all eager grin and sparkling eyes. “Spock! Just the man I was looking for.”

“Oh?” Spock asks, lips tightening. Being this close to Kirk is--well, he is one of those people who has a tangible presence, and it sets Spock a little on-edge. This close, he can almost feel the bright energy radiating out of Kirk.

“Yep. Wanted to introduce myself; Jim Kirk, trumpet player,” he says, holding out a hand. Reluctantly, Spock takes it. Kirk shakes it in a very no-nonsense manner and smiles up at Spock, eyes crinkling at the corners.

A flash of something uncomfortable flares in Spock, and he frowns to cover it. “You appear to already know my name,” he says.

“Believe me, I paid attention after what you played yesterday!” Kirk says. “That was amazing, man, is it one of your own compositions? Don’t think I’ve heard it before.”

Spock shifts his violin case into a different position. “Yes. And thank you. You played well too,” he admits, because honesty won’t let him keep silent, and Kirk’s thirty seconds of jazz improv were quite breathtaking.

“Thanks,” Kirk says, smiling again. “I try. So hey, I was thinking maybe we could discuss music over breakfast?”

Spock blinks, and his stomach flips.There could be no harm in sitting with Kirk, could there?Perhaps he was having a difficult day yesterday; perhaps he’s not actually as bad as he appears.(Perhaps they could still be friends, he doesn’t let himself think.)

“Don’t you mean lunch?” he asks.

Kirk lets a lazy grin simmer on his lips. “Nah,” he says conspiratorially. “Breakfast. We could head out right now.”

Spock’s stomach flips again, but this time unpleasantly. He can feel disapproval tightening into a thick knot in his chest. “Do you mean,” he demands with deceptive calm, “to skip rehearsal?”

Kirk shrugs. “Nah, we’ve got a half hour till then, which gives us forty minutes, as I figure it. It’s early days yet, and it’s only sectionals; Pike won’t mind if we’re ten minutes late.”

Spock stops. They’ve reached the set of rooms which are used for sectionals, where he and Kirk will separate. He turns to Kirk and draws himself up to his full height, which leaves him staring down a mere inch directly into Kirk’s infuriatingly bright blue eyes.

“You don’t appear to be taking this seriously,” he tells Kirk, fury pressed down until you almost can’t hear it in his voice. “I _am_. I have no idea what kind of ulterior motive you’re hiding in trying to pull me away from practice, but I can assure you I’m not interested. I’ll thank you to leave me alone.”

Before the Kirk can respond, Spock turns and goes into the room where the violins are. A place, he thinks with vicious satisfaction, where Kirk can’t follow him. He pastes a smile on his face and goes to the front of the room to warm up, shoving all thoughts of the useless trumpet player firmly out of his head.

-

Kirk refuses to give up, however. Over the next few weeks, he makes it his personal mission to get Spock to befriend him.

He meets up with him every morning and chatters at Spock for the length of the hallway, no matter how fast Spock walks. He ambushes Spock after sectionals and walks him to the cafeteria, talking and trying to make Spock talk, and every day inviting Spock to join him for lunch. He comes up to Spock’s stand in the breaks they have and attempts to engage him in more conversation; he charms Spock’s stand partner so she doesn’t protest.

It makes Spock’s blood hot. He can guess exactly how else Kirk uses that charm: slimily, sleazing up to people and getting under their skin, twisting them up until they’re so dependent on him that he can do anything he likes. Until he believes he can just smile that smile and everything will work out.  Well. As far as Spock’s concerned, Kirk won’t succeed with him, and he tells Kirk as much.

“I assure you, my feelings on the matter will not change,” he says one morning on the way to practice, forcing himself not to grit his teeth. “We have nothing in common. Why do you persist with this?” It’s a puzzle, and one that twists in his stomach and distracts him when he ought to be thinking of the music.

“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong,” Kirk says, nudging Spock’s shoulder with his own. “Just because I’m willing to miss ten minutes of rehearsal and you’re not doesn’t mean I don't take it extremely seriously, or that we have nothing in common. We’ve got lots in common, man! _You’re_ just too stubborn to see it.”

“Do tell,” Spock murmurs sarcastically.

“We’re both pigheaded,” Kirk says with an immediate grin. “I think you call it ‘determined,’ though,” he goes on airily. “And we’re both smart. And I’m pretty sure you have an awesome sense of humor underneath all that blustery logic. _And_ we’re both awesome musicians who are passionate about what they do. See, that’s four things already, dude. We,” he announces, leaning closer, “are practically soulmates.”

“Everyone here is passionate about what they do,” Spock retorts, ignoring the rest because it’s too absurd to address. “We would not be here if we weren’t.”

“Yeah, but there’s passionate and there’s _passionate_ ,” Kirk argues. “There’s loving something and there’s living it, you know? And when you play your violin, you just--everything, of you. It’s right there. You feel it all and you put it into your music.” He pauses. “And I think that’s pretty awesome, ‘cause I try to do the same with my trumpet.”

Spock stops abruptly, heart beating close beneath the skin on his chest and breath caught somewhere lower. He’s never been able to put into words what music means to him, and the fact that Kirk can just look at him and _see_ it, understand him so easily--

“Excuse me,” he mutters, and takes off down the hallway at a fast clip.

“You’re gonna have to talk to me again sometime!” Kirk calls down after him.

“You wish,” Spock mutters to himself, but he’s badly shaken.

Kirk keeps challenging his convictions, and it’s extremely confusing.

-

“Dammit!” mutters Sulu--Hikaru, if Spock remembers correctly--flipping between two pages of his score, forehead pinched in a frown behind his glasses. “I’m never going to get this measure,” he moans, drooping until his chin rests against the body of his cello.

Pavel Chekov--everyone knows _his_ name, because he’s a prodigy; only seventeen and plays the flute like James Galway--Chekov cocks his head at those words. He sets his flute down gently against his stand and hops off his stool, twisting between the rows until he’s by Sulu’s side, peering at the music over Sulu’s shoulder. “What are you heffing trouble with?” he demands cheerfully, speaking in the thick accent Nyota refers to as “adorable.”

Sulu shakes his head a little, looking embarrassed. “Pavel, no--I just suck, man. There’s nothing you can do about it _._ Seriously, don’t worry about it. I’ll get it. Eventually,” he sighs.

Chekov shakes his head and takes Sulu’s face in his hands, turning the cellist until they’re facing each other. “We weel figure it out together,” he tells Sulu, nodding firmly. He then presses a quick kiss to Sulu’s mouth and grins, bright and sweet. Slowly, Sulu grins back, reaching up to tug on one of Chekov’s curls.

Spock swallows and drops his eyes to the floor. Chekov and Sulu are dating, and no one seems to think--well. No one seems to take notice of it whatsoever, unless it’s to say how “cute” they are. It--it unsettles Spock, to say in the least. He’s not used to it. The people he knows like that usually keep their romances off the stage.

He ignores the burning in his stomach and the embarrassed flush he can feel creeping up his neck, and turns back to his score. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Kirk staring at him from across the room, but he pretends not to notice and tucks his violin under his chin, pressing hard so he can concentrate.

-

After that, Kirk switches tactics, and starts flirting with him.

It’s not subtle, because Kirk never is. It begins with exaggerated winks whenever they cross each other in the hallways, moves swiftly on to obvious innuendo (Kirk inviting Spock to “polish his instrument” and “help him with his fingering”) and finally, settles into bald statements.

“You know, I’m awesome at blowjobs,” he says one afternoon, leaning against Spock’s stand with a slow grin teasing at the corners of his mouth. “Trumpet players usually are.”

Spock doesn’t react in any way except perhaps to tighten his fingers on his bow a fraction and furiously ignore the fluttering in his stomach. He reminds himself, for the hundredth time, that Kirk’s only doing it for shock value. He flirts with everything on two legs--Spock is only a challenge to Kirk because he doesn’t respond. It’s only another way for Kirk to tease at him and get under his skin, another one of his bizarre attempts to conquer Spock. It’s only another example of how cruel he is.

Acknowledging these things and moving on would not be such a problem if Spock’s body would listen to logic.

Kirk is brash and impolite, barging his way into rooms and lives without a care for how he affects them. He has that insidious charm and laughs things off when he should be attentive; he only respects authority when it suits him, and is constantly stirring things up. He is Spock’s opposite in every way, and it should be quite repellant. It _is_ quite repellant.  
  
And yet--and yet Kirk stands next to him and his heartbeat kicks up, and he feels warm, and his stomach flutters, against all reason.

Kirk is very physically attractive, it must be granted: the strong jaw, the body that is sturdy and powerful without being stout, the mischievous bow of his mouth. None of that should affect Spock, though, because Kirk’s personality is so abhorrent to him. He’s never had this problem in the past; it’s always been easy to separate his body’s--reactions, and set them aside.

Not so with Kirk. For all he annoys Spock, he fascinates him, too. It’s hard not to be fascinated with someone so bright and energetic, he tells himself, but he knows he’s rationalizing. Just a week or so ago he despised Kirk.  Now, he finds himself equal parts disgust, fascination, and curiosity. It’s dangerous.

He turns a page of his score with imagined calm, and says, “Please leave me alone. I am attempting to practice.”

Kirk opens his mouth to retort, but whatever he’s about to say is cut off by Pike’s piercing whistle, announcing the end of their break. Kirk shrugs and gets up. “See you after rehearsal’s over!” he calls over his shoulder.

Spock immediately works out a plan to be out the door before Kirk’s done putting away his trumpet. As long as he can stay away from Kirk, this disturbing--thing need not interfere with his life. He nods to himself and dives into “Enterprising Young Men” once more.

-

_(3)_

And then somehow he gets roped into playing chess with Kirk nightly, which makes his original plan much more difficult.

It happens like this: they all go to dinner together at Pike’s insistence. “I need you to be a cohesive team. Thick as thieves,” he tells them. “And I know how insular it gets. So I want you to sit at a table tonight with _no one_ who plays your instrument. Mix, mingle! Get to know everyone, because you guys need to be a well-oiled machine. Go ahead and find yourself a group right now, then come back and report to me with the members’ names and instruments. I expect to see you all sitting together tonight; I _will_ be checking.”

Spock looks at Nyota immediately, thankful that the choir has finally started practicing with them so he needn’t go into this completely alone. She nods back and pats Gaila’s shoulder before heading over to his side of the stage. He’s waylaid by Chekov and Sulu on the way to meet her.

“Hey, d’you mind if we sit with you?” Sulu asks with a smile, arm slung around Chekov’s shoulders.

“You’re welcome to,” Spock says, puzzled but not displeased.

“Awesome, thanks!” says Sulu.  "I was hoping to ask you a couple things about that piece of yours . . . "

Scott--who prefers to be called Scotty, he told Spock--comes up behind Sulu and claps him on the back just as Nyota arrives. “Hey lads, and the lovely Miss Uhura," he chirps.  "Can I come along? I promise I won’t be a bother.”

Nyota smiles at him. “Go right ahead," she says. "Your drums are _awesome_ , by the way--”

“Hey guys!” Kirk interrupts, grinning and leading Leonard McCoy over into their group. “We don’t have anyone to eat with yet, so can we chill with you?”

Spock scowls automatically, but Sulu and Chekov are smiling up at them, Sulu urging them to join in. Nyota rolls her eyes at Spock behind Scotty’s back but gives a tiny shrug. Spock nods back. Not an ideal situation, but he wouldn’t like to be rude. They give their names to Pike and arrange to meet in the cafeteria at seven.

Spock’s stomach knots itself up long before then, but from unhappiness or some twisted sense of anticipation, he can’t decide.

-

“You are a clarinetist, but you also play the sexophone, yes?” Chekov asks McCoy over his drink. Sulu chokes back a laugh, and Chekov swears in Russian. “ _Sax_ ophone,” he repeats carefully.

McCoy laughs. “Saxophone, sexophone--sometimes it depends on the occasion."

Kirk rolls his eyes. “Don’t mind him, he’s dirty.”

“From what I hear, you’re one to talk!” Scotty accuses, grinning.

“Yeah, I guess people around here pretty much think I’m the definition of manwhore, huh? Which I probably deserve,” Kirk admits, grinning. “But I swear I’m not actually _that_ bad. I’ve got moral lines. I’ve never cheated on someone, for example, and I never will.”

Nyota snorts.

“No, seriously!” Kirk insists. He gestures earnestly with a breadstick to emphasize his point. “That’s just something I’ll never do. Bones, back me up on this one, will ya?” he asks McCoy, slapping the clarinetist’s chest with the back of his hand.

“Get your paws off me,” McCoy grumbles. “But yeah; I know it’s hard to believe, but as much of an idiot as he is, he’s actually not lying about that,” he tells Nyota.

This is dangerous territory, Spock thinks. He does not want to discuss this. Any of it.

“Fascinating as your sex lives are,” he says, tone measured and not hinting at all at the bizarre flips his stomach is doing, “I believe we’re meant to be talking about our interests, not--Kirk’s habits in bed.”

“What, sex isn’t interesting?” Kirk quips. “Fine, fine. What do you guys like to do in your spare time? Scotty, you look like you’ve got hidden depths! Enlighten us.”

Scotty grins, viciously. “I like video games. Put a controller in my hands and I’m _gold_ \--I beat Portal in an hour.”

“Dude, _awesome_ ,” says Sulu, reaching out for a high-five.

Scotty smirks. “Thanks. What about you sorry bastards? Sulu here’s obviously all right, but anyone else share the best passion in the world? Kirk?”

“Nah,” McCoy says, slapping Kirk’s shoulder. “ _This_ sorry bastard likes chess.”

“You do?” Spock finds himself asking, before he can stop himself.

It’s the surprise of it, he thinks; Kirk does not look like a chess player. He looks like a Grand Theft Auto player. But Kirk's grinning that golden grin that always feels like a jolt of lightning to Spock’s stomach, and he immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything.

“Yeah, I do. I was on Chess Team four years running in high school, man. Do you play?”

“Yes,” Spock admits, grudgingly. He doesn’t like to lie when he doesn’t have to; it never made sense to him.

“We should play together,” Kirk says, voice gentling a little. His expression, for once, is friendly without being suggestive. “I’ve been dying for a real game. Bones here sucks at chess.”

“Because it’s boring,” McCoy sing-songs.

Kirk rolls his eyes. “It’s not boring. It’s a fascinating game of tactics. Which you happen to suck at.” He ducks McCoy’s punch and smiles up at Spock. “Whaddya say, wanna play a game after dinner?”

Spock thinks later that perhaps he’s also starved for chess. There’s no other logical reason for him to say yes and risk his attraction to Kirk getting out of hand; it’s not worth it. And yet the words that come out his mouth are “yes, all right.”


	2. Chapter 2

“I told you we had things in common,” Kirk gloats later.

“Hmm,” Spock says, and takes his rook. “Check.”

“Damn.” Kirk sighs. “All right, all right, I get the point.”

He reveals himself to be an excellent chess player, though, enough of a challenge that Spock really _does_ want to continue playing with him.  
  
But it turns out to be impossible to avoid talking to someone when you’re in the same room with them, which certainly makes hating Kirk indiscriminately that much more difficult. Spock finds himself learning too much about his partner to truly do that. He reluctantly allows discussion, then gets drawn in. He finds himself following up eagerly on things Kirk told him in the halls, which he’s held back from doing because that would be giving in. Whereas now, it's only polite.

(He avoids the thought that he gave in long ago, and merely persisted with the dislike because he was stubborn.)

“See?” Kirk says after a few weeks, settling back into his chair and smirking. “I’m not so bad.”

Spock rolls his eyes. “You are tolerable,” he admits, folding up the chessboard.

Kirk mimics a cheering crowd and pumps his fist in the air, and Spock tries not to smile.

-

_(4)_

It’s very much a downhill slope from there.

They become a little group of sorts, against the odds--him, Nyota, Sulu, Chekov, McCoy, Kirk, and Scotty. It begins with occasional dinners after rehearsal and progresses to eating together almost every night, then hanging out practically whenever they can. There’s something incredibly, strangely easy about it, like slipping into a place that was meant for him. He gets along with the others in a way he’s only ever been able to do with Nyota, and it's comfortable and smooth.

He gets along especially with Kirk. He supposes it shouldn’t surprise him by this point, but somehow it does: being friends with Kirk is as easy as breathing. For all their differences, they fit together like--he breaks off that thought before it can become dangerous, flushing a little. They fit together like good friends ought to. They make an excellent team, and he can read Kirk in an unconscious way he thought it took years to learn to do. They can finish each other’s sentences and predict each other's actions. They spend most of their free time together, and it feels right. He only persists in calling Kirk “Kirk” as a joke, now, and Kirk grins every time he hears it.

And yet. _And yet,_ he thinks, pressing his lips together tightly. And yet in the course of becoming friends, his fascination with and attraction to Kirk has bloomed into something else altogether. He suspected it might happen, of course, but he hoped he would be able to keep himself controlled enough to stop it.  
  
No such luck. Jim Kirk makes him sing, body and soul.  
  
Spock avoids putting a name to it and shoves it further down in himself. He knows more than anything that he can’t acknowledge it now, not when it threatens their close friendship and other things. He shouldn’t even be thinking of it at all, but at least if he _is_ thinking of it, he can keep it to himself.  
  
He spends more time practicing than ever before, slipping into that space in his mind where everything blurs together and becomes simple to handle. Music has always been like a kind of meditation to him; with his hand on his violin, his apprehension melts away, so he hides himself among the notes as best he can and tries not to think of Kirk very much.

-

  
Nyota confronts him about it at one of the bar crawls she and their little crew have taken to dragging him on. He thinks he’s being subtle, watching Kirk crowd into the space of some blonde against the bar of the third place, but apparently not, because within moments, she appears to raise her eyebrows at him.

“Hello, Nyota,” he tries.

“Don’t give me that! You’ve been staring at him all night. Do you like him?” she demands, blunt as ever.

He runs his finger around the rim of his glass. The weird yellow light of the bar is reflected in it, making a shadow world in the water, and he wishes for a moment he could escape there, away from these questions he knows will lead to dangerous territory. “Who?” he asks, throat dry.

“ _Boys_ ,” Nyota mutters, elbowing his drink away so she can stand directly before him, unbalancing him. “Kirk, Spock. Do you like him?”

Spock's heartbeat kicks up. “He’s a better companion than I would have expected. He’s quite good at chess,” he offers, avoiding her eyes and hoping desperately she won’t push it.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it, you irritating--seriously. Do you _like_ him?” She pushes a hand lightly against his chest.

The bar is too loud, he thinks. He can barely hear himself breathe. He waits a beat too long to say anything, then stays silent because he’s certain it won’t do him any good.

He’s right. Understanding washes over her face. “You _do_ like him,” she says, and it’s so, so soft. Soft enough to break hearts.  
  
He shrugs, and wishes he hadn’t come tonight. He should have spent his time practicing instead.

“Okay, you like him; have you noticed he’s been flirting with you like crazy?” she asks, in that special concerned you’re-my-best-friend-but-you’re-a-bit-slow tone of hers.

He shrugs again, drops his eyes from her face. “He’s--a tool,” he mutters, stomach aching. “You said so yourself.” That’s not the reason he won’t make an advance, but it will serve for now, he thinks.

She shakes her head and sees right through him. “Yeah, okay, he is,” she says, sighing and tossing a glance over her shoulder at Kirk. “But I was kinda maybe wrong about him. He’s been pretty damn nice since we started hanging out, you have to admit. And he’s funny, and really smart, too, and--not malicious.” She laughs a little. “So he’s a tool, but he’s kind of _our_ tool.”

She turns back to him and pierces him with a glare. “And you _like_ him. So why don’t you make a move?” she says.

He closes his eyes against the barrage of lights and listens for a few moments to the frantic rhythm of his heart. Unbidden, memories come to him, and when he opens his eyes to escape them, she's standing there, arms crossed and eyes expectant.  
  
“You _know_ why,” he says finally, gritting his teeth and squeezing his glass till he feels it might break. “Dammit, Nyota. You know.”

She’s quiet for a blessed moment, then takes his chin in her delicate hands, smoothing her fingertips lightly over his jaw while the bass thumps in the background.

“Your dad’s not here, Spock,” she says, brown eyes huge and gentle. She strokes the side of his face with the back of her warm hand. “You can live a little, sweetie," she whispers. "You can go on a date with him if you want to--no one’s going to stop you. It’s _okay_. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

He swallows over the lump in his throat and shakes his head, because he doesn’t know what to say.

His father would be so angry, if he did, so disappointed. He can still remember exactly how cold Sarek’s eyes felt when he confessed, sliding over Spock in the half-dark of the living room. Closed-off and icy, too furious for words--

Which of course Spock understands; truly, he does. It goes against Sarek’s expectations and desires, that Spock’s like this. It hurts Spock, yes, but he understands. His father is, in many ways, right to be disappointed in his son, he supposes. And Spock doesn’t mind living the rest of his days alone to avoid being even more of a disappointment, if possible.  
  
It’s no hardship. He has the best friend he could ever have in Nyota, and requires nothing more. Music is the only partner he truly needs, the only thing that will ever understand him as fully as he understands himself. It's only logical.  
  
But Nyota’s never felt that way about it, of course. She wants more for him.

Dear, darling Nyota. He’s not sure he’ll ever understand what he did to deserve her. She figured the whole mess out before he did, and has been with him every step of the way since that night he stood at the end of her bed, fingers paralyzed on the buttons of his shirt. She’d just taken one look at his face and pulled her bra back on, sudden understanding and sadness flashing in her eyes, but no anger.  
  
They’d spent the night in that bed, but not the way he’d planned. She’d stroked his hair while he lay curled over her lap, shaking, into the small hours of the morning. She’d said the same things then, too; _it’s okay. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with_ you.

He knows, objectively, that she is right. It’s an aspect of his biology that he has no control over, after all. It’s not as if he chose to be the opposite of what his father wants. But the knowledge doesn’t make it any easier. And it certainly doesn’t make his attraction to--to James T. Kirk, of all people--it doesn’t make _that_ easier at all.

No. His father’s been hurt enough already, by his mother’s death and Spock. There’s certainly no need to take it further by flaunting it in his face, is there? To disappoint his father again, for Jim Kirk’s idle, careless flirtations, would be nothing less than foolishness. He feels the certainty of it like a cold hard pit in his stomach. He swallows against it.

“He’s not serious about it,” he finds himself saying. “He’s like that with everyone, Nyota, and I couldn’t risk--not unless I was sure he wouldn’t break my heart.”

He immediately wishes he could take the words back. He would rather have worded it _any_ other way; what a disgustingly humiliating thing to say. God, this whole thing is just--so _fucked up_. He rarely swears, but this is an occasion that calls for it.

He feels Nyota’s arms come up around him, and he goes willingly, dropping his face into her neck. He squeezes his eyes shut and the world's reduced to sounds, safe and dark, far away from golden boys and their devastating smiles.

“I think he might mean it," she whispers into his hair after long moments. "I really do. And he’d be good for you." A pause. “You’d be good for each other.”

He says nothing, just keeps his eyes shut tight and pulls her closer.

-

He leaves the bar after that, though it’s only eleven. He heads straight home to his dark room, and doesn’t bother turning on the lights. He collapses on the bed and tries to catalogue his thoughts, pushing his sluggish brain. Order, he knows; facts and certainties don’t betray you. Facts and certainties don’t often laugh with you and make your heart stumble in your chest. If he can organize himself, this won't be quite as terrifying.

But if he's going by facts and certainties, it’s no use denying it to himself on any level any longer, is it? he thinks bleakly. Because it’s a fact, and a certainty: he’s attracted to Jim Kirk, and more than just sexually. He’s mentally and emotionally attracted to Jim Kirk, his intelligent, funny, and surprisingly deep friend.  
  
He laughs humorlessly as he remembers his conviction several weeks ago that Kirk was nothing but a shallow, manipulative bastard who used his natural charisma to exploit others. Kirk and exploitation do not belong in the same sentence, he now knows. Kirk has the charm, to be sure, but also a deep, unfailing affection for most of humanity that leaves him incapable of true malice. He’ll tease and joke and walk the line, but when a thing’s important to you, he respects it. No, Kirk is not cruel. He's compassionate and exhilarating in a way not many people are. And _challenging_ : he enjoys drawing Spock into conversations of complex philosophy, which are exciting and enjoyable even if the two of them disagree. Or perhaps _because_ they do. Spock is comfortable fighting with Kirk, because he knows somehow that the bond he and Kirk have goes beyond petty arguments.

Being with Kirk is so easy _._ Kirk makes him happy, just by existing, and he can’t imagine ending their friendship after this is all over. The very thought tightens his breath into a thick coil of unhappiness under his ribs.

He frowns. If he were more certain about things like this, he’d say he’d fallen in love with Jim Kirk.

He pauses, considers. Swallows, and reels a little in the face of epiphany. Well. That’s--that's hideously inconvenient.

But being in love or as close to as he's ever been changes nothing, he decides after a moment. What else is there to do but what he's been doing? He’ll put it to the side like always. Wind it up inside him and hold it apart from himself. He can’t allow it to interfere with the music, or their friendship, after all. If he gets any indication that Kirk means it as more--but that’s highly unlikely to happen, so there’s no point in thinking of it, is there? All he has to do is keep it to himself and everything will be fine. Yes.

He presses his palms to his face and closes his eyes and doesn’t know what to think at all. This is like a whirlwind and it’s knocked him off his feet; he’s left stumbling in its wake without logic or reason, left only with the feeling that a star has exploded in his chest.

He rolls off the bed and pulls his violin out of its case. Some things only music can fix.

-

“So,” Kirk says a few days later, “you and Uhura. How long’s that been going on?”

Spock almost drops his pawn. “Excuse me?” he asks, smoothly taking Kirk’s bishop instead.

“Fuck,” Kirk mutters, glaring at the board. “Damn you. I said, you and Uhura? How long’s that been going on? You two make a cute couple.” He cups his chin in his hand and scowls at the pieces. He’s been distracted these last few days, and Spock hasn’t been showing any mercy. He’s currently down to one knight, a rook, one lonely pawn, and his king and queen.

“We’ve been friends since high school, if that’s what you mean,” Spock says, examining the board with studious concentration. There are seven ways Kirk could win, if he played carefully.

“No, that’s not what I mean, and you know it,” Kirk mutters, reaching out to hold onto his knight but not yet making a move. “Hmm. I meant, how long have you been dating?”

Here’s another instance where his aversion to lying will do him a disservice, Spock thinks with a mental sigh. Kirk's sure to question him further, now. “We’re not dating,” he says.

Kirk looks up, blinking in surprise. “You’re not?”

“No.”

“But the other night, in the bar, I saw--” he frowns. “Why _aren’t_ you dating?”

Spock shrugs and glances back at the table, resisting the strong urge to toy with a pawn. “We tried. We weren’t suited to each other,” he says instead.

Kirk reels back a bit, and peers closely at Spock’s face, confusion written in every line of his body. Spock looks back at him with false calm, hoping his expression gives nothing away. So far it’s been surprisingly easy to pretend he feels nothing more than friendship for Kirk. He supposes he must have been doing it unconsciously for quite a while now. But it's like holding his breath: it gets harder and harder the longer he keeps it up.  
  
“Are you going to make your move?” he asks to cover, nodding at the chess pieces.

“Oh! Oh. Yeah,” Kirk says, dragging his eyes back to the board.  
  
He reaches for the knight again, then tilts his head to look up at Spock sideways. There’s an emotion in his eyes Spock hasn’t seen before, which he can’t quite place. It sets his nerves thrumming with confusion and some horrible misplaced thread of hope. “Kirk?” he asks quietly. “Is something wrong? You seem--distracted,” he adds, managing to keep his voice even.

“You’re coming to that party tonight, right?” Kirk demands, ignoring Spock’s question.

“I--hadn’t planned on it, I must admit. I do not know Gary Mitchell very well,” Spock says, blinking.

“No, you’re coming,” Kirk says firmly. “You’re coming. You _have_ to come.”

Spock swallows. Kirk is oddly focused, and having all that energy directed at him is more than slightly intoxicating, even with Kirk discussing such mundane things. “Well, I suppose I could,” he replies, a bit helplessly.

And Kirk grins, wide and bright. “Awesome. I’ll see you there, then. Don’t leave before finding me, okay? Good.” He places his knight with a flourish. “And there. See what you can do with _that_ , Vulcan.”

Hearing Nyota’s joking endearment from his mouth is almost too much to bear. Spock bites his lip and concentrates his entire being on countering Kirk’s attack, and wants things he knows he shouldn't.

-

The first thing he notices is that the party is very loud. Mitchell seems to have invited half the city, and they’re all shoved into his room and spilling out into the hallway, dancing to some bizarre combination of Vivaldi and techno. Spock hesitates at the fringe, but Nyota tugs him forward with a quelling look. “You said he would be waiting for you,” she reminds him, and he nods and follows her into the knot of people at the doorway.

Inside the crowd is no less prevalent; after fifteen minutes of standing at the wall with Nyota with no sign of Kirk, feeling caged in, he goes off to find a cup of punch, which he nurses sitting in a lone chair he finds while Nyota dances with Scotty and Sulu.

“Spock! There you are! I’ve been looking for you!” comes a sudden voice from his left.

Spock looks up and finds Kirk standing next to him, wearing a golden-yellow shirt that by all rights should look horrible on him. Naturally it only serves to make him look more handsome. Spock swallows and immediately regrets coming.

“Hello,” he offers, quietly. “Big party. A little insane, I must say.”

“Yeah, Mitchell’s parties are always pretty crazy,” Kirk says. He taps Spock’s shin with the toe of his shoe. “You having a good time?”

Spock shrugs. It’s been a long day, and he’s tired and in no mood to be hiding his affection for Kirk. It takes too much out of him to not smile at his friend like he wants to; he almost wants to leave rather than test himself like this.

“Wanna get out of here?” Kirk asks, interrupting his train of thought.

Spock frowns up at him. “But you said--didn't you want to come?”

“Yeah, but I wanna show you something more.”

“But--“

“Come on, come with me,” Kirk urges, tugging at his hand. His eyes are wide, and the icy blue of them goes straight to Spock’s stomach like a jolt of lightning. His hand is very warm against Spock’s. “Please, man. I swear, it’ll only take ten minutes. You can come back right after, if you wanna. Just come with me for a little bit, I wanna show you something.”

_You can live a little_ , says Nyota in his mind.

Heart fluttering, Spock forces himself upwards, feeling more terrified than he ever has in his entire life. “All right,” he says.

And Kirk’s face--there are no other words for it; Kirk’s face lights up. Grinning hugely, he pulls Spock along behind him, through the throng of people until they’re through the door and into the hallway.

“Where are we going?” Spock asks, with a slight tremble he knows he will deny till death.

“It’s a surprise,” Kirk says, grinning back over his shoulder. He doesn’t let go of Spock’s hand, but grips it lightly in his own as he leads Spock down the hallway, until they’re near the single practice rooms. Spock is--confused, at the very least. Confused, and hot, and a million other things. Kirk’s skin feels electric against his, and his heart, he feels, must be beating loud enough that the world can hear it and use it for a metronome.

Kirk stops suddenly at a door and opens it, one-handed. He pulls Spock inside and closes it behind them, then flips on the light. Spock’s eyebrows go up before he can check himself.

“This is a piano room,” he observes. It’s also very small, as practice rooms tend to be. There is only enough space for the piano and one chair.

“Yep,” Kirk says, dragging him further forward. He lets go of Spock’s hand and pushes lightly at his shoulders until Spock sits in the chair, then whirls around and pulls out the piano bench. Spock’s stomach churns in confusion. As far as he knows, Kirk does not play the piano, so what is he doing?

“I don’t understand--” he begins.

“Shh,” Kirk tells him, turning back to smile. “Just listen, okay?”

Spock frowns, and nods.

Kirk turns back to the piano and lays his fingers lightly over the keys. A calm expression settles over his face, and without warning, he begins to play, eyes closed.

Spock watches and listens, and is blown away.

The piece Kirk has selected is soft and sweet, trickling down over the higher octaves and lingering on low, mellow notes. It flows through the room, building and falling in waves, and Kirk treats the music so tenderly that Spock finds himself holding his breath, transfixed. Kirk always puts the whole of himself into his music, but Spock’s never--Spock’s never seen him play something like _this_ , trailing his fingertips over the keys with a lover’s gentleness. He’s _glowing_ with it.

It makes Spock’s blood race, and he wants things he knows he shouldn’t: Kirk’s hands caressing Spock's skin with the same single-minded adoration he is showing the piano. Spock can’t look away, imagining it almost against his will and trying to keep his breath. He grips his knees tightly, heart beating in time with the music, and just listens.

Eventually, Kirk stops. He lets his hands rest for a moment as the sound fades from the room, then turns to Spock and smiles a small, private smile, the likes of which Spock has never seen on his face before. He’s reminded of how exactly how close he and Kirk are sitting, and he finds his mouth has gone very dry.

“I didn’t know you played the piano,” he says quietly, to break the weighted silence.

Kirk’s smile widens, and he ducks his head, shrugging a little. “Not really something I advertise,” he says. “I’m not really that good, compared to everyone here, anyway.”

Spock shakes his head, still shocked. “You’re very good,” he counters, truthfully. “What--the piece is beautiful; I’ve never heard it before. What’s it called, and who is the composer?”

Kirk grins. “Thanks. I haven’t decided on a name yet; whaddya think of ‘Spock’s Song’?”

Spock’s heart stutters in his chest, and he blinks back in confusion. Surely the world has turned too hard on its axis; the ground has leapt from under him. This can’t be real. “You--you--” he tries.

Kirk’s lips quirk in a smile, and he turns until he’s facing Spock on the bench, legs crossed. “Yeah. About that,” he says. “I’m just gonna come right out and say this: I kinda like you. Maybe a lot. Actually, we can scratch the kinda and the maybe and just say: I like you, a whole damn lot. And I’d _really_ like it if you’d go on a date with me. A few dates, actually, and if you haven’t cut my balls off by then--” he grins again, hopeful-- “I’d kinda like to be your boyfriend.

“And I promise I’ll leave you alone, if you say no,” he assures. “Or we can keep playing chess. Whatever you want, man. Look, I don’t wanna screw things up, here, I just thought I’d take a chance after--well, after what you said earlier. Figured maybe that was the reason you and Uhura never worked out, after all. So, uh, whaddya say?”

Spock can’t find the words to reply. He is struck absolutely dumb, for once in his life. Kirk--who could have _anyone_ , any person in the whole entire world--Kirk is here, in this room, offering himself and his music to Spock. He wrote a _song_ for him, unless Spock’s misunderstood. That’s--momentous.

His father be damned, Spock thinks feverishly; he won’t get two chances at this.

“Yes,” he manages, finally, pressing his shaking hands against his legs.

Kirk grins at that, eyes sparkling. “Really?” he asks.

Spock nods. The room seems too small to contain what he’s feeling, but he wishes it were even smaller, that they were pressed even closer together, skin to skin and atom to atom. God, Kirk _wants_ him. If there’s a headier feeling than that, he’s never known it. He bites his lip over a smile.

“ _Awesome_ ,” Kirk says, still grinning. “Awesome. God, am I ever glad I don’t have to lie and blame this on alcohol.” He leans forward and peers up at Spock through his lashes. “Can I kiss you?” he asks--straight out, blunt and brazen as he always is. But Spock can see the sweetness in his eyes, and it’s dizzying.

“I’ve never--” he starts, swallowing. “Not with--”

Kirk smiles. “We can go slow, then,” he promises, reaching out to slide a warm hand around Spock’s neck and pulls him forward until their lips meet.

Spock and Nyota kissed, before, but this is nothing like that. Nyota was soft and lovely; Kirk is all angles, and his hand is very firm on Spock’s neck. He holds nothing back in his kiss, sliding his tongue into Spock’s mouth and just going for it like it’s the most important thing in the world.

And it’s slow and hot and wet and unbelievably _good_. Spock finds himself gripping Kirk’s side tightly through his shirt as Kirk angles his jaw and presses deeper into his mouth. His entire body is suffused with warmth, and everything's bright and charged and utterly perfect. He has the very irrational thought that he never, ever wants to leave this room. Wants it to be just like this, forever, curled up so closely that no one can tell where Kirk ends and Spock begins.

Eventually they have to breathe, though. Kirk pulls back just a little, resting his forehead against Spock’s so their shallow breaths mingle. Kirk sighs, pressing one last light kiss to the corner of Spock’s mouth. Spock can feel the puff of Kirk’s breath on his own lips, and it sends shivers all through him.  
  
“Was that okay for you?" Kirk whispers. "‘Cause it was pretty fucking great on my side." It’s intimate--soft and muffled, like they really are the only two people in the universe. Spock can't help but press a little closer.

“Yes, Kirk,” he breathes out.

“Jim,” Kirk corrects, leaning back a little further and smoothing his thumb under Spock’s ear with an affectionate grin. “First-name-basis now, doncha think?”

“Jim, then,” Spock murmurs back. He can’t stop himself from smiling so hard it hurts his cheeks.

Kirk--Jim--Jim beams back at him, and moves forward on the bench until they’re pressed even closer. His fingers tangle in the hair at the back of Spock’s neck, and he brings his other hand up to trace the ever-present violin bruise under Spock’s jaw, feather-light.

“Jesus, you drive me crazy. You know that?” he says, blue eyes reverent. “You’re something else. Special," he says, mouth lingering over the word. "You really are.”

Spock doesn’t have words to reply, so he simply presses a hand to Jim’s face and leans in to kiss him again, happiness enough for a thousand symphonies welling through him.

-

It’s unbelievable how smooth they sound by the end of the week. Pike can’t get over it; he raves on about how he’s never worked with a group this _with_ each other before. “It’s like magic,” he’ll tell them, smiling the proudest smile they’ve ever seen him wear. “I don’t know what it is, but you guys have it.”

Every time he says this, Jim kicks back in his chair and smirks at Spock from all the way across the room. _It’s you and me,_ he’ll mouth, and Spock can never quite stop himself from smiling, amused, before shaking his head. Jim takes credit for an awful lot of things.

(Though admittedly, in this case he may be right. Spock’s still not going to let him have the satisfaction so easily. That would take all the fun out of it.)

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> Honest disclaimer: I haven't really looked at this story in... at least 7 years, so there's probably parts of it that would make me wince or that I would disagree with now. There's certainly parts I would write differently! However, I'm not going to go back and edit it (unless something sticks out to me egregiously) because this is meant to be a record of the story I wrote at the time more than anything else. I'm not really looking for detailed constructive criticism on this story for those reasons, but if something in it seems harmful, feel free to let me know and I'll see what I can do to address it. <3


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